Last Man Standing

24

Web had not read a paper in several days. He finally bought a copy of the Washington Post and went through it over coffee at a table near the large fountain at the Reston Town Center. He had been making slow circles of the Washington metropolitan area and racking up some serious motel bills for the Bureau. Web occasionally looked up and smiled at the kids climbing up on the ledge and throwing pennies into the fountains while their mothers held on to their shirttails so they wouldn’t go plunging into the water.

He had gone through Sports, Metro, Style, working his way backward to the front section. On page A6 his nonchalant attitude disappeared. He reread the article three times and looked closely at the accompanying photos. When he sat back and digested it all, he found himself coming to conclusions that didn’t seem possible, so far-fetched were they. He touched the damaged side of his face and then pressed a finger against the spot of each bullet hole. After all this time was he going to have to confront it again?

He punched his speed dial. Bates wasn’t in. Web had him paged. The guy called back a few minutes later. Web told him about the article.

“Louis Leadbetter. He was the judge down in Richmond who tried the Free Society case. Gunned down. Watkins was the prosecuting attorney in the case. He goes in his house and it implodes. All on the same day. And then you got Charlie Team. We were the team that responded to the Richmond Field Office’s request. I killed two of the Freebies myself before I got my face toasted and two holes in me. And then you have Ernest B. Free himself. Busted out of prison, what, three months ago? One of the guards was paid off, got him out in a transfer van and ended up with his throat slit for his trouble.”

Bates’s reply was surprising. “We know all that, Web. We’ve had our computers crunching that stuff, and then those two deaths, murders, happened. And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“You better come on down.”

When Web arrived at the WFO, he was escorted to the strategic operations room that had all the bells and whistles one would expect at the deep-pocketed crime-busting federal behemoth, including the standard-issue copper-coated walls, sophisticated interior security system, white noise at all vulnerable portals, retinal and palm scanners, stacks of high-powered computers, video equipment and, most important, fresh coffee in high quantities and a mound of hot Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

Web poured himself a cup and said hello to some of the folks scurrying around the large room. He looked at computer-generated diagrams of the courtyard and its environs that had been tacked to large boards and mounted on the walls. There were pins at various places on the diagrams that represented, Web knew, significant points of evidence or clues. The bustle of feet, the nonstop clack of computer keys, the ringing of phones, the rustle of paper and the ballooning body-heat index told Web that something was up. He had been part of these war room operations before.

“Oklahoma City set the standard way too high,” said Bates with an ironic smile as Web sat down across from him. “Now everybody expects us to examine a few hunks of metal, check a few videotapes, run a few plates, hit some computer keys and bingo, we have our man hours later.” He dropped his legal pad on the table. “But it almost never works that way. Like everything else, you need some breaks. Well, we just got a bunch telegraphed to us. Somebody definitely wants us to know he’s out there.”

“I’ll take a lead however it comes in, Perce. Whoever it is can’t control how it’s followed up.”

“You know I really hated it when you left WFO to go climb ropes and shoot big guns. If you’d stuck with me, you might have made a decent FBI agent one day.”

“You make your bed, you lie and die in it. You said there was something else?”

Bates nodded and slid a news clipping over to Web, who looked down at it.

“Scott Wingo . . . that name rings a bell.”

“Yeah, he defended our friend Ernest B. Free. I wasn’t at the trial, of course. I was still recuperating. But the guys who were there talked about Wingo.”

“Slick and smart. He cut his guy a sweetheart deal. And now he’s dead.”

“Murdered?”

“Atropine was applied to his telephone receiver. You pick up the phone, you naturally press it against your skin, near your nostrils and such. Atropine is absorbed through the membranes much faster than via the bloodstream. Causes your pulse to go into over-drive, breathing constricted, can make you hallucinatory, all within an hour or so. If you have bad kidneys or other circulatory problems so the body can’t quickly rid itself of the stuff, that would speed up the poison’s effect. Wingo was diabetic, had heart problems and was confined to a wheelchair, so atropine was the perfect choice. He went in alone on Saturdays, so nobody would be around to help when he started feeling the atropine hit him. And on weekends he was known to return a lot of calls, or so the folks in Richmond tell us.”

“So whoever killed him knew both his medical history and his work routine?”

Bates nodded. “Leadbetter got shot when he turned on the light to read an article another judge supposedly told him about. The marshal who took the call said it was a Judge Mackey. Of course, it wasn’t.”

“The phone again.”

“That’s not all. Watkins’s neighbor was pulling out of his driveway at the time Watkins was walking up to his house. He told police that he saw Watkins reach into his pocket and pull out his phone. The guy couldn’t hear the phone ringing, but he said it looked like Watkins was answering a call. Gas in the house, he hits the talk button. Boom.”

Web said, “Wait a minute. A cell phone isn’t like a light switch. It doesn’t have the right type and amount of electrical spark to ignite gas.”

“We examined the phone, or what was left of it. The forensic folks actually had to scrape it off Watkins’s hand. Someone had planted a solenoid inside the phone that would cause the exact type of spark necessary to ignite that gas.”

“So somebody had to snatch his phone, probably while he was asleep or away from it for any length of time, plant the solenoid and then they had to be watching him when it happened to get the timing that exact.”

“Yep. We checked the logs for Watkins’s and the marshal’s phones. Both calls were made with disposable calling cards you buy with cash and then discard. No record.”

“Like undercover agents use. I take it yours hasn’t surfaced yet?”

“Forget our undercover.”

“No, I’ll just come back to him later. So what’s the latest on Free?”

“Nothing. It’s like the guy’s gone to another planet.”

“Is the organization still active?”

“Unfortunately, yes. You probably remember they disavowed being part of the hit on the school in Richmond and Ernie wouldn’t rat on his soul mates, said he’d planned the job himself without their knowledge, so there went that case. The other gunmen were dead, two of them thanks to you. We couldn’t crack any of the other members and get them to testify, so the Free Society was never even charged with anything. They laid low for a while because of all the negative publicity, but word is they’re coming back with fresh blood.”

“Where are they now?”

“Southern Virginia, near Danville. You better believe we’ve got that place covered. We figured old Ernie would head there after his escape. But so far, nothing.”

“After all this, can’t we get a search warrant for their headquarters?”

“What, we go to the magistrate and say we’ve got three murders, six if you count Watkins’s family, and we think this Free Society might be behind them, but we’ve got absolutely no evidence linking them to the hit on HRT or anybody else? Wouldn’t the ACLU just love to hit that one out of the park?” Bates paused. “It all makes sense though. Prosecutor, judge, perfect motive for revenge.”

“But why the defense lawyer? He saved Ernie from lethal injection. Why take him out?”

“That’s true, but you’re not talking about rational people, Web. For all we know, they’re pissed because their fellow madman served one day in prison. Or maybe Ernie had a falling out with the guy and when he got out he decided to take them all out.”

“Well, at least that should end the killings. There’s nobody left.”

Bates reached in a file and pulled out another slip of paper and a photograph. “Not quite. You remember there were two teachers gunned down at the school too.”

Web took a deep breath as the painful memories came flooding back. “And the boy, David Canfield.”

“Right. Well, one of the slain teachers was married. And guess what? Her husband was killed three days ago in western Maryland while driving home late one night from work.”

“Homicide?”

“Not sure. It was a car crash. Police are still investigating. Looks like a hit and run.”

“Telephone involved?”

“There was one in the car. After we contacted them, the police said they would check the phone logs to see if he received a call right before the crash.”

“How about the other teacher’s family?”

“The husband and kids moved to Oregon. We’ve contacted them and they’re under twenty-four-hour surveillance right now. And we’re not stopping there. You remember David Canfield’s parents? Bill and Gwen?”

Web nodded. “I was in the hospital at MCV for a while. Billy Canfield came to visit me a couple of times. He’s a good guy. He took the loss of his son really hard, who wouldn’t? I never met his wife, and I haven’t seen Billy since.”

“They moved. Live up in Fauquier County now, run a horse farm.”

“Anything strange happen to them?”

“We contacted them as soon as we made the connection. They said nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. They knew about Free’s escape. And to quote Bill Canfield, he said he doesn’t want our help and he hoped the bastard came after him because he’d just love to blow his head off with a shotgun.”

“Billy Canfield is no shrinking violet. I could tell that when he came to the hospital to see me; rough, tough and opinionated. Some of my team who testified at the trial told me he was a pretty loud presence there too. Came close to contempt citations a couple of times.”

“He ran his own trucking firm and then sold it after his kid died.”

“If the Frees are behind the killings in Richmond, Fauquier County is a lot closer than Oregon. The Canfields really could be in danger.”

“I know. I’ve been thinking of taking a ride out there and trying to talk some sense into him.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You sure about that? I know that what happened at that school in Richmond is something you’d be better off not revisiting.”

Web shook his head. “That’s not something you ever put behind you, Perce, I don’t care how much time goes by. The two teachers died before we got there. I couldn’t do anything about that, but David Canfield was killed on my watch.”

“You did more than anybody could have, including almost getting killed. And you got a permanent badge from it right there on your face. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Then you really don’t know me.”

Bates studied Web closely. “Okay, but let’s not forget about you, Web. If wiping out Charlie Team was the Frees’ goal, they haven’t accomplished it yet. You’re the last man standing.”

Barely, thought Web. “Don’t worry, I look both ways before crossing the street.”

“I’m serious, Web. If they tried once, they’ll try again. These people are fanatics.”

“Yeah, I know. Remember, I got the ‘permanent badge.’”

“And another thing. At the trial Wingo filed that countersuit against HRT and the Bureau for wrongful death.”

“That was bullshit all the way.”

“Right. But it allowed them to make some discovery on HRT. The Free Society probably learned some things about your methods, procedures and such. It could have helped them in setting up the ambush.”

Web hadn’t considered this yet. It actually made a lot of sense.

“I promise if I get any weird-ass phone calls, you’ll be the first to know. And I’ll check my receiver for atropine. Now tell me about this undercover. Maybe the Frees are involved, but they had to have some inside help. Now, I know he’s black and it’s hard for me to believe the Frees would work with a man of color, but we can’t afford to discount anything right now. You told me Cove was a loner. What else do you know about him?” Web hadn’t heard back from Ann Lyle on his inquiries into Cove, so he had decided to go right to the source.

“Oh, lots of stuff. It’s right in that file over there, marked ‘FBI Undercover Agents, All You Ever Wanted to Know.’”

“Perce, this guy could be the key.”

“He’s not! Take my word for it.”

“All I’m saying is I worked these kind of cases. And contrary to what you think, I didn’t forget how to be an FBI agent when I joined HRT. I had a great teacher, and don’t let that swell your head. And another pair of eyes is another pair of eyes. Isn’t that what you always beat into me?”

“That’s not how it works, Web, sorry. Rules are rules.”

“I seem to remember you telling me differently way back when.”

“Times change, people change.”

Web sat back and pondered whether he should play his trump card. “Okay, what would you say if I told you something you don’t know but that could be important?”

“I’d say why the hell didn’t you tell me before?”

“I just figured it out.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Do you want to hear it or not?”

“And what’s in it for you?”

“I give you info on the case, you do the same for me.”

“How about I make you tell me for nothing?”

“Come on, for old times’ sake.”

Bates tapped the file in front of him. “How do I know it’s really something I can use?”

“If it’s not, then you owe me nothing. I’ll trust your judgment.”

Bates eyed him for a few more moments. “Go.”

Web told him about the switch with Kevin Westbrook. As he went on, Bates’s face grew more florid and Web could tell the man’s pulse was nowhere near sixty-four and had probably left double digits far behind.

“When exactly did you figure this out? And I want it to the minute.”

“When I was having a beer with Romano and I mentioned that the Kevin Westbrook I saw had a hole in his cheek from a bullet wound. The kid he had, he said, didn’t. Cortez corroborated that. And don’t go after those guys. I told them I’d fill you in ASAP.”

“Sure you did. Who would switch the kids and why?”

“Not even a good guess. But I’m telling you the kid I saved in the alley and the kid Romano turned over to the ‘alleged’ FBI agent were two different boys.” He tapped the table. “So what’s your judgment? Worth it or not?”

In answer Bates opened a file, although he recited the facts from memory. “Randall Cove. Age forty-four. Been with the Bureau his whole career. He was an All-American tailback from Oklahoma but blew out his knees before the NFL draft. Here’s a recent photo.” Bates slid it across and Web looked at the face. The guy had a short beard, dreadlocks and eyes that could only be described as piercing. The vitals said he was a big man, about six-three, two-forty. He looked powerful enough to take on a grizzly and maybe win. Web hunched forward and while he pretended to study the picture in greater depth he was actually reading as much as he could from the file Bates had open. His years as an FBI agent had left him with many tricks to help his short-term memory retention until he could write things down. And he had also become very proficient at reading upside down.

Bates said, “He could take care of himself, knew the street better than most kingpins. And cool under pressure.”

“Yeah, Princeton white-breads named William and Jeffrey just never seem to fit in with Drug Town, USA, I wonder why,” said Web. “You mentioned before that he didn’t have a wife or kids. So he never married?”

“No, his wife’s dead.”

“And they didn’t have kids?”

“He did.”

“What happened to them?”

Bates shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It happened a while back.”

“I’m all attention.”

Bates let out a long breath and didn’t seem like he was going to start talking.

“I lost my whole team, Perce, I’d kind of appreciate full disclosure here.”

Bates sat forward and clasped his hands in front of him. “He was working an assignment in California. Heavy cover because it involved the Russian mob, and those guys will fire a missile up your ass for coughing around them. They make the Mafia look like preschoolers.” Bates stopped there.

“And?”

“And his cover got blown. They traced his family.”

“And killed them?”

“Slaughtered would be more like it.” Bates cleared his throat. “I saw the photos.”

“Where was Cove?”

“They had intentionally diverted him away so they’d have a free hand.”

“And they didn’t go after him too?”

“They tried, later. They waited until he buried his family, nice guys that they were. And Cove was waiting for them when they came.”

“And he killed them?”

Bates started blinking rapidly and Web noted a sudden tic over the man’s left eye.

“Slaughtered. I saw those photos too.”

“And the Bureau just let this guy keep working? What, they don’t believe in early retirement for agents with butchered families?”

Bates spread his hands in resignation. “The Bureau tried, but he wouldn’t go. He wanted to work. And to tell you the truth, after what happened to his family, the guy worked longer and harder than any UC we ever had. They transferred him to WFO to get him out of California. Let me tell you, he got into places we were never able to get into before. We got convictions on serious large-scale operators all across the board because of Randall Cove.”

“Sounds like a hero.”

Bates finally smoothed out his tic. “He’s unorthodox, goes his own way a lot, and the higher-ups can only take so much of that, even from the undercover dudes, slaughtered family or not. But none of it really stuck to Cove. I can’t say it hasn’t hurt his career, I mean, it’s not like the Bureau has a place for a guy like this outside of undercover, and I’m sure he knew that too. But he plays the Bureau games. Always covered his back. You take the dirt with the good and the guy always delivered. Until now.”

“And the trace on his family by the Russians—would that have been in any way the Bureau’s screw-up?”

Bates shrugged. “Cove didn’t seem to think so. He’s been plugging away ever since.”

“You know what they say about revenge, Perce, it’s the only dish best eaten really cold.”

Bates shrugged again. “Possibly.”

Web was just starting to get worked up. “You know, it just gives me the warm fuzzies that a guy like that was able to stay in the Bureau and maybe lead my team down the primrose path to Armageddon to avenge his wife and kids. Don’t you guys have some kind of quality control over this shit?”

“Earth to Web, undercover agents are a different breed. They live a lie all the time and sometimes they get in too deep and get turned or just go nuts all on their own. That’s why the Bureau switches people in and out, changes assignments and lets them recharge their batteries.”

“And they did all that with Cove? Switched him out, let him recharge his dreadlocks? Gave him crisis counseling after he buried his family?” Bates was silent on this. “Or was he so good at his job that they just let him keep rocking along until he finally erupted all over my team?”

“I’m not going to discuss that with you. I can’t discuss that with you.”

“What if I told you that was unacceptable bullshit?”

“What if I told you, you were getting way too close to the line?”

The men glared at one another until the fires died down.

“And his snitches? Were they all-pro too?” asked Web.

“Cove always played it close. He had access to them only, not anybody else. That’s not exactly Bureau procedure, but like I said, you couldn’t argue with the guy’s results. Those were his rules.”

“So we know any more about this target? You said it was the financial guts of some drug op. Whose?”

“Well, there’s some difference of opinion about that.”

“Oh, swell, Perce. I love a puzzle at both ends.”

“This stuff is not an exact science, Web. The area where your mission went down is controlled pretty much by one crew, Big F’s—I told you that.”

“So it was his operation we were hitting in that building.”

“Cove didn’t think so.”

“He didn’t know for sure”

“What, you think the bad guys carry union cards or ID reading, ‘I’m a member of X crew’?”

“So what was Cove’s opinion?”

“That the money operation was that of a much bigger player. Maybe the ring supplying a drug called Oxycontin to the D.C. area. You heard of it?”

Web nodded. “DEA guys talk about it all the time down at Quantico. You don’t have to drug-lab the stuff or worry about sneaking it past customs. All you have to do is get your hands on it, which you can a dozen different ways, and then start printing money.”

“A criminal’s Nirvana,” added Bates dryly. “It’s one of the most potent and frequently prescribed painkillers on the market right now. It blocks pain signals from the nerves to the brain and gives you a feeling of euphoria. Normally, it works on a twelve-hour time release, but if you crush it or smoke it you get a brain rush that some say is almost equal to heroin. It also can throw the abuser into respiratory arrest, which it has frequently.”

“Nice little side effect. Are you telling me you have no idea who his inside guy might have been?”

Bates tapped the file in front of him. “We have some ideas. Now, this is totally unofficial.”

“At this point, I’ll take rumors and lies.”

“For Cove to get in as deep as he was, we figure the snitch has to be in the inner circle, pretty tight. He was working the Westbrook angle when he stumbled into the Oxy piece. But I have to presume that whomever he was using to infiltrate Westbrook’s operation is the person who helped him get on to this new development. Antoine Peebles is Westbrook’s COO, for want of a better term. He runs a damn tight ship and it’s largely because of him that we haven’t been able to lay a finger on Westbrook. Here’s Westbrook, and the other one is Peebles.” He slid across two photos.

Web looked at them. Westbrook was a monster, far bigger even than Cove. He looked like he’d been through a war, his eyes, even staring out from the paper two-dimensionally, had the keenness that you always saw in survivors. Peebles was an altogether different picture.

“Westbrook is a warhorse. Peebles looks like he should be graduating from Stanford.”

“Right. He’s young and we figure Peebles is the new breed of drug entrepreneurs, not as violent, more businesslike and ambitious as hell. Word on the street is that someone’s looking to band all the local distributors together, to make them more efficient, enhanced bargaining power up the line, economies of scale, a real business approach to it.”

“Sounds like old Antoine may want to be CEO instead of just COO.”

“Maybe. Now, Westbrook came up through the streets. He’s seen and done it all, but we’ve heard that he may be looking for an exit from the drug business.”

“Well, Peebles may have a different agenda if he’s the one behind the organization of the local crews. But giving away valuable stuff to Cove doesn’t exactly figure with being the heir apparent. If you bust the operation, what does Peebles have left to run?”

“That’s a problem,” conceded Bates.

“Who else is in the picture?”

“Westbrook’s main muscle. Clyde Macy.”

Bates handed him the photo of Macy, who, to put it kindly, looked like he should be taking up space on death row somewhere. Macy was so white he looked anemic; a skinhead with the sort of calm yet merciless eyes that Web associated with the worst serial killers of his experience.

“If Jesus saw this guy coming at him, he’d scream for a cop.”

“Apparently Westbrook only works with the best,” commented Bates.

“How did Macy fit in with all the brothers? He looks like a white supremacist.”

“Nope. Apparently just doesn’t like hair. We don’t know much about him before he came to D.C. Though we could never prove it, he was believed to be a foot soldier for a couple kingpins who got sent to federal Shangri-La in Joliet. After that he came to D.C. and joined Westbrook. He has a well-deserved rep on the street for loyalty and extreme violence. A real crazy-ass, but professional in his own way.”

“Just as any good criminal should be.”

“His first big act of malice was putting a meat cleaver in his grandma’s head because, he claimed, she was shortchanging him at dinnertime.”

“How come he’s walking around free after a murder rap like that?”

“He was only eleven, so he did time at a juvie detention center. Since then, the only crime the guy’s committed is three speeding tickets.”

“Nice guy. Mind if I keep these photos?”

“Help yourself. But if you run into Macy in a dark alley or a well-lit street, my advice to you would be to run.”

“I’m HRT, Perce. I eat guys like him for breakfast.”

“Right. Keep telling yourself that.”

“If Cove’s really as good as you say, then he didn’t just walk into an ambush. Something else is going on.”

“Maybe, but everybody makes mistakes.”

“Did you confirm that Cove didn’t know when we were coming?”

“I did. Cove was not told the date of the hit.”

“How come he didn’t know?”

“They didn’t want any leaks, and he wasn’t going to be there anyway, so he didn’t qualify as a need-to-know.”

“That’s great, you didn’t trust your own undercover. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have gotten the information from another source. Like WFO?”

“Or like HRT?” Bates shot back.

“And the potential witnesses being there, was that intel from Cove?” Bates nodded. “You know, Perce, it would have been nice to know all this up front.”

“Need-to-know, Web. And you didn’t need to know that to do your job.”

“How the hell can you say that when you don’t have a damn clue how I do my job?”

“You’re getting close to that line again, my friend. Don’t push it!”

“Does anybody give a damn that six men were killed in the process?”

“In the grand scheme of things, Web, no. Only people like you and me care.”

“So, anything else I don’t need to know?”

From his large stack of documents Bates pulled out a very thick expandable file, slid out one of the manila folders and opened it. “Why didn’t you tell me Harry Sullivan was your old man?”

Web immediately rose and poured himself another cup of coffee. He didn’t really need the extra caffeine, but it gave him time to think of a response or a lie. When he sat back down Bates was still looking over the file. When he glanced at Web, it was clear Bates wanted an answer to that question before he would give up the material.

“I never really thought of him as my father. We parted company when I was barely six. To me, he’s just a guy.” After a moment, he asked, “When did you find out he was my father?”

Bates ran his finger down one of the pages. “Not until I pulled your entire background-check file. Frankly, looking at this arrest and conviction record, I’m surprised he had time to get your mother pregnant. Lotta stuff in here,” he added enticingly.

Web wanted to snatch the file out of Bates’s hands and run from the room. However, he just sat there, staring at the upside-down pages, waiting. The bustle of the room had receded for him now. It was just him, Bates and, on those pages, his father.

“So why are you suddenly so interested in, as you say, ‘just a guy’?” asked Bates.

“I guess you get to a certain age, things like that start to matter.”

Bates put the folder back and slid the entire file across to Web. “Happy reading.”